Talking about the Weather

by Anne Michaud

My life seemed so wide-open when I was in my 20s. But by my 30s, I had begun making decisions that set me apart from other people. I got married, had children, formed ideas about raising those children. That's when the trouble started.

That's because, for some ineffable reason, we humans seem to want to have our choices validated. Married people want their friends to marry. Parents urge friends to begin filling the bassinet. Somehow, it makes us feel as though we made the right choices if other people make them also.

It's a simple enough need and sweetly vulnerable in a way. By the time we reach our late 30s or early 40s, though, most of us have made so many life choices that we are rarely going to match perfectly with a potential new friend.

I mean, when you were 6, it was easy, right? Your new friend liked dandelions and swinging from jungle gyms, and that was enough. The two of you were compatible.

Adult friendships are so much more complicated. Even a simple conversation can be filled with land mines. I remember mentioning to a friend's mother, in a casual chat, that I hoped my husband would not be promoted because his level of responsibility suited us at the moment. He was able to spend time with our kids. She was shocked. I think her sense of herself was predicated on her husband's success. I wasn't meaning to judge her, but she might have taken it that way.

Similarly, I felt judged recently when I went in for a manicure. This is not a typical activity for me. The last time I remember having a manicure was for my wedding, more than eight years ago. I certainly am not keeping the manicurists of the world in business.

As she pushed down my cuticles, Esther asked me if I worked, then if I had children. Yes to both. She asked what my children did while I worked. Well, I told her, they go to school and then to an afternoon program at the YMCA.

At this point, I knew the conversation was heading to a place I did not want to go. I knew I was being judged for my choices, but somehow, I couldn't manage any more than bland, polite answers. I was a deer in the headlights.

She asked what time I picked up my children in the evening, and I knew the judgment had reached its pinnacle. Oh, my poor neglected daughters. By contrast, Esther had left Korea and most of her family behind to raise one son in the United States so he could attend medical school one day. She obviously believed in self-sacrifice. Perhaps she was looking for validation of her choice, or perhaps this was the one way in which she could feel superior to me, the lady with the good job and $7 to have her nails done.

So, I did what slow-witted people the world over do. I said nothing at the time and repeated the story to my friends later, asking them what they would have done.

"I suppose if you know the other person's view, you could: a) lie; b) be defensive; or c) knock over the bottle of nail polish to cause a diversion," says Alison Fujito, a concert violinist and mother of three.

"In a perfect world," she says, "we would all be so sure of ourselves that we calmly could explain what we do, why we came to the conclusion that we did, and why it works for us."

Yes, that would be lovely. But it would entail confronting Esther with the idea that I believed she was judging me.

Other panel members advised heading off the manicurist. Susan McKee says a friend who was going through a divorce received a lot of similarly leading questions.

"She just started saying, 'How curious of you to ask such a question,' or, 'It is interesting to me that you would ask such questions,'" Susan says. "This stopped people and turned the subject back to them (something they love) without saying, 'My, aren't you a nosy, self-righteous person?'"

Another friend, Luis Fabregas, was struck dumb by the comment of a woman in the grocery store checkout line. He was waiting with his son, Daniel, who like any normal 2-year-old was whining for a piece of candy.

The woman in front of them turned around and offered to buy Daniel candy "if your daddy won't." She said she had always given her children candy when they wanted it, and they had turned out just fine.

"I said, 'Trust me, he gets plenty of candy,'" Luis reports. "Can you believe this woman? I wish I would've had the nerve to put her in her place."

Don't we all wish we could say the perfect thing at the perfect moment? I guess being well prepared is the best defense.
My manicurist and I are in for some long conversations about the weather.